Playtime
by Jacquzy
Summary: <html><head></head>In which Germany has a closet full of bondage gear "just in case," and Italy wears a maids' dress. De-anon from the Kink Meme. Polished somewhat, but no differences to the "plot."</html>
1. Chapter 1

Ludwig is hardly expecting a peaceful day; Feliciano comes over most of the time, now, and stays for lunch, dinner, supper (because Ludwig just doesn't eat enough, apparently), a midnight snack, and breakfast, and he does not expect today to be any different.

He has a few bits of work to do; mostly governmental proposals to look over, and make notes on, and one or two things he has already read, and now just has to sign, and he has a phone call with Spain regarding air safety checks at half-past four, but all of this together will not take him more than about two hours; so really, the day is his.

He supposes that the sensible thing to do would be to get his paperwork out of the way before his little Italian love – er, friend bounces into his office, knocking over books and stacks of paper and labelled pots of pens and pencils, disrupting the rhythmic flow of getting one's work done (Feliciano doesn't understand the importance of things like this), and so he does it, as quickly as he can, because he got up almost twenty minutes late this morning, which simply will not do, and is expecting the little Italian to come bursting into his home at any moment now.

Feliciano fails him on this expectation.

At about eleven, Aster and Blackie and Berlitz begin to whine and scratch at the door, and, having finished pretty much all his work (save for the phone call, of course), Ludwig decides to take his pets for a walk. They leap up at him in excitement, tails wagging madly the second he emerges into the hallway, reminding him strongly of a certain someone he knows very well, and he is still chuckling to himself as he locks the front door, and makes his way down the road, three panting canines straining at their leashes.

Briefly, he wonders whether or not he should have left without waiting for Feliciano to arrive – he loves the "doggies" too, after all; but on reflection, he thinks this way may be for the best. Feliciano is not very strong, and would, Ludwig knows, struggle to hold on to even Aster, the oldest and calmest of his dogs. He has no desire to see any of his pets hit by a car today.

They walk for about thirty minutes – around the block, cutting through a park where Blackie chases a family of geese and is bitten for his fun – and back up to his house, and Ludwig is not at all surprised to find his front door unlocked.

It is probably Feliciano, he knows. Of course, theoretically, it could be his brother, but Gilbert has been spending more and more time at Roderich's house lately, and anyhow, Ludwig just...knows that it is Feliciano. He always does.

The dogs begin to bark with excitement when he opens the door; no doubt catching the visitor's scent, and recognizing it as being that fun young man who always brought them treats, and let them eat "people food," and played with them in the garden until the stars came out, and he had to come in for hot chocolate and a cuddle...

Ludwig shakes his head, and presses his cold hands to his cheeks which, for some peculiar reason, have turned bright red, hangs his coat and the dogs' leashes up, and ventures further into the house.

It is quiet, but he is sure he can hear somebody moving about upstairs...

He heads for the staircase. The dogs try to follow him, but he sternly sends them back down into the kitchen. Aster flops into his bed; the other two sit side-by-side in the doorway, their heads close together.

"Feliciano?" he calls.

No response.

"Feli?" he tries again. "Italien?"

Nothing.

One more try. He reaches the top of the staircase. "Feli, Blackie and Berlitz are doing that cute thing you like again..."

There is no cry of joy, and no snigger of "Kesesesesesesesese!" so it is safe to assume that neither Feliciano or Gilbert are the ones in the house with him.

So that means...

Ludwig freezes.

Who is it, a few feet and a couple of walls away? Roderich? Not likely. Lovino? No! Kiku? Of course not. The Japanese man would never invite himself into another's house. That was more of a Feliciano thing.

Yes; it has to be Feliciano.

"Feli!" He tries one more time, turning the corner as he starts forwards again, opening the door to his bedroom. The silly fool is probably asleep, he thinks. Outrageous.

He pushes the door open, and steps into the room.

And stops.

"Oh – hello, Ludwig!"

It is indeed Feliciano; though for a few seconds, his mind is assaulted with fuzzy memories of dreams and – real memories, are they? – of a young brunette in a green and white maid's outfit smiling up at him. He blinks hard, and tries in vain to catch his breath.

"F-Feliciano?" His face feels very red again.

"Ve!" Feliciano beams up at him, cheerful to the last. "Of course! I told you I'd be coming today!"

He didn't.

Ludwig struggles. "Wh- what are you...Feli, what..." Words completely fail him.

Feliciano, his lovely, innocent, child-like Feliciano, is knelt upright before Ludwig's closet; the closet he has, time and time again asked his friend not to look into. Spread out on the carpeted floor before him are – oh _Gott –_ several pairs of handcuffs, a few lengths of rope, a large, shiny, black piece of fabric which Ludwig immediately recognised as a blindfold, a riding crop, a roll of black bondage tape, several different types of gags, a pair of leather gloves, and two whips.

"Playing," is Feliciano's answer.

He doesn't seem embarrassed at all. Not in the slightest.

"B-but...but you...you...but...I...y-you..."

"Ve..." Feliciano looks up at him, over one slender shoulder in confusion. "Ve...oh!" His eyes light up in sudden comprehension. "Oh, sorry Ludwig! I didn't mean to get them all out at once. I remember grandpa used to tell me off for doing that, and Mr Austria even more, but Hungary didn't mind. Ve, she's nice, isn't she?"

Ludwig blinks.

"I will put them away, I promise! I'm just looking...ve..." he adds, whilst Ludwig can do nothing but stand and gawp, "What's this thing do?"

He turns around again, fully this time, holding something up in his hand – and Ludwig very nearly passes out.

He is wearing a short white dress, trimmed with green and black lace and satin, with matching stockings – Scheiße, that skirt is so damned short Ludwig can see the tops of the legwear – and...oh, Gottverdammt. Feliciano isn't wearing matching...matching..._underwear, _is he? Ludwig's throat and mouth suddenly feel very dry indeed.

"Ve..." Feliciano peers anxiously up at him from the floor. "Are you okay, Ludwig? You look kind of funny...maybe you should sit down, ve?"

He does not sit, but falls back onto his bed. The room feels strangely deprived of oxygen, and his body is already suffering the effects. Feliciano seems oddly unaffected.

"I didn't know you rode horsies," he is saying happily, holding up the riding crop. Ludwig's hands ball into fists in the duvet. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Er...er..."

He needs to get out; go downstairs, outside, get some fresh air, have something to eat and drink, lie down, take a nap...

He needs to go to the bathroom and jerk off.

"Owie!" Feliciano has struck his own palm with the crop, leaving a bright red mark on that lightly bronzed skin. "Ve...I hope you don't hit your horsies hard with this thing, Ludi." He frowns at the other man, and it is so cute, yet so arousing, Ludwig finds himself unable to hold back the strangled moan that rises up through his chest and into his throat.

"Ooh, Ludwig, you really don't sound good at all. Do you want some pasta?"

"No, thank you," he manages to croak out. "No...no pasta, Feli..."

"Oh...okay!" Feliciano shrugs, waves the crop in the air inconsequentially, and skips back towards the pile of things on the floor. He bends down to examine the next...toy. Ludwig nearly faints. He _is _wearing underwear to match that damned dress.

"What do these do?"

"Feli..." he says, before he takes what's left of his sanity and goes to live in a cave somewhere far, far away, "Feli...why...why are you wearing...that...that d-dress?"

"Ve?" Feliciano looks down at himself, almost surprised, as if he had forgotten that it was there, hanging about his slender, lovely figure...

Ludwig swallows, hard.

"Oh, well, I was talking to Hungary the other day, after I left yours, and I was telling her about how I had to leave early because you had so much work to do. I said I wished I could help you, because we never get to spend much time together these days, and you're always so busy, and it makes you grumpy, and then it makes me sad, and then we can't make love, and _then_ she thought for a bit, and guess what? She said that she had an idea!"

Ludwig trembled. He could see exactly where this was going.

"She said that I could probably help you out, and make you happy if I helped a bit around the house like I used to back when I was tiny! At Mr Austria's house, I mean...so she helped me pick out a nice maid outfit, like I used to wear, so that my ordinary clothes don't get dirty, 'cause I know you don't like my clothes to get dirty, like when we take the doggies for walks, and I jump into puddles with them, and then you yell at me...well, I don't like that, and neither do you, so that's why I'm wearing a maid outfit." He smiles, as though his reasoning makes perfect sense.

"B-but...the closet..."

"Ve, well, when I got here, you were out, so I couldn't ask you where I should start cleaning, so I rang Hungary, and she said that maybe I should start in your bedroom, because then, if your bedroom's nice and tidy, you'd want to spend more time in there. I think she means you don't get enough sleep, and I –" He trails off, his eyes slowly, so slowly widening in understanding. "Ohhh! Ohhh! I get it!" He giggles, pressing his hands to his face.

Ludwig makes a small noise somewhere between a squeak, and an exasperated sigh.

"But your bedroom was very neat anyway, so I looked under the bed, and in the drawers, and the only place I could find that wasn't perfect was here! In this closet! And I know you said I'm not meant to look in here, so I tried tidying with my eyes shut tight, like this –" Feliciano mimes sorting through boxes in mid-air, "but that was kind of tricky, so I opened my eyes, and then I got a bit curious, and..." his lower lip trembles, and suddenly he flings himself into Ludwig's lap, instantly and inexplicably bawling his eyes out. "I'm sorry, Ludwig! I'm sorry, I swear! I didn't mean to disobey you! Ve! Please, please, please forgive me!"

"Er..."

It is intensely awkward, having Feliciano wrapped around him so firmly like he is right now. He can see the soft round shape of his upper thighs in that space between the hem of the dress, and the intricate, lacy stocking tops. The nape of his neck, too, looks positively delectable, and so is the way his small hands tug at Ludwig's shirt, and squeeze his skin and muscles tightly enough to leave bruises – and that, is a very, very arousing mental image indeed – and, to top it all off, he can feel the little Italian's warm, half-hard erection pressing against his own through the soft material of the dress.

It would appear that he is not the only one who finds whips and riding crops, and other toys hidden away inside closets so intensely fascinating.

They have had sex a few – several – many, many times already, but Ludwig has never tried anything with his lover that is not completely, one hundred per cent (ninety percent, perhaps) vanilla. Those toys are there – just in case really, and he has often dreamed of bringing them up with Feliciano, but he doesn't quite know how. He is, he supposes dismally, just as repressed as his brother accuses him of being.

Feliciano moves his head from where it is lodged at the other's stomach, eyes full of fear and hope, and – they flicker towards the riding crop.

"Ve...Ludwig...you're...y-you're not going to...beat me, are you?" he whispers.

That idea is tempting...sorely tempting...but then he looks back at his lover, on his knees above him, in that sinful little dress, and he pictures him holding that crop...

"Ve...Ludi?" Feliciano looks at him, eyes wide and more than a little confused.

"You look beautiful, Schätzchen" he says suddenly; hoarsely, and a deep blush spreads across his cheeks.

Feliciano blinks down at him, momentarily thrown by Ludwig's sudden, loving compliment – then he smiles.

Ludwig did not know his sweet little Feli could smile like that.

"You think I'm pretty?"

Am embarrassed pause.

"J-ja."

"Ve! You like me like this?"

"I...I do. A...a lot."

Feliciano beams, and settles himself comfortably into Ludwig's lap. He casts a wry glance downwards. "I can tell," he says, and dissolves into giggles. He shifts again, and the dress rides up a little further...not quite enough, though.

"Kiss me," Feliciano commands suddenly, and Germany does as he is told. Heat slowly builds in his chest, his stomach, his groin, and he desperately crashes his mouth to the other man's.

"Ludi?" Feliciano whispers into the kiss, and Ludwig reluctantly pulls back.

Feliciano is grinning. "Let's play a game," he says.


	2. Chapter 2

"Wow," says Feliciano, and Ludwig wonders how on earth he has managed to get himself into this sort of situation, "this is kind of complicated, isn't it, Ludwig?" He frowns deeply behind his lover's shoulder, and drops the handcuffs on the floor for the third time.

"You just...need a bit of practice," says Ludwig, irritably, then he realizes what these words imply, and blushes to the roots of his hair.

Feliciano, predictably, fails to notice.

"Let me try one more time," he says, and with childish determination, pulls Ludwig's wrists together behind his back, his small fingers hardly able to wrap all the way round the larger man's hands. Ludwig stands still, gathering together every ounce of his patience (that was something one learnt an awful lot about when spending time with Italy – patience), and lets his eyes slip close until he feels cool metal against the soft skin of his left wrist; the bow has opened. He waits a few clumsy seconds longer, then there is a sharp _click, _and, with a small tug of his hands, he finds himself handcuffed.

Feliciano gives a squeal of delight. "Ve! I did it! Ludwig, I did it, see?"

"I can't really see," says Ludwig, doing his best to conceal a wry smile, "my hands are behind my back, you know."

Feliciano blinks, processing the information. Then, slowly, slowly, that wicked grin only revealed to Ludwig this day spreads steadily across his face.

"Ve! Don't be rude!" he exclaims, giving the taller man a quick, sharp slap on the upper arm. Ludwig jumps in surprise, and arousal slowly unfurls its wings, and begins to prowl round and round his abdomen. "I don't want to have to punish you, Ludwig," Feliciano continues, and pushes his lover backwards, until he is seated on the edge of the bed. He straddles him; his dress sliding further up towards his pelvis; the stockings straining at his folded thighs.

"Yes," says Ludwig, almost without thinking about it. "Sorry..."

"Ah!" Feliciano exclaims, and reaches down for the riding crop. Ludwig's whole body jerks when he feels it land in the same place Feliciano hit him just moments ago; and though the sleeve of his t-shirt softens the blow slightly, the sting is still there, and it burns delightfully. "in Italiano!"

"Mi dispiace," Ludwig says quickly, and Feliciano dissolves into giggles at his accent.

"You're funny, Ludi," he informs the other man.

"And you're ruining the moment."

"You shouldn't suck so much at my language, then!"

"I don't thi- ahhh..."

Feliciano descends on the other man before he can complete his sentence, latching onto his neck, taking the skin between his teeth and sucking and biting hard enough to leave big purple marks all the way up and down that pale column of muscle. Ludwig's head falls back in pleasure, and his eyes flutter closed as those wonderful teeth sink in, tearing and bruising and abusing – only for the pain to be diluted and sweetened by a quick, teasing swipe of a wet, pointed tongue. He moans.

"Ti piace, vero?"

"J-ja," Ludwig whispers – Gott, it feels so good...Feliciano's finger nails are digging in to his exposed forearms; his teeth nip, his tongue moves swiftly, roughly up and down his neck; those lovely thighs are warm and spread above him, and every so often the little Italian moves, sways against him, and arousal continues to coil and swell between his legs..."I m-mean, si..."

Feliciano leans back a little, studying his lover's face. Ludwig is practically hypnotised by those eyes...those big, beautiful, brown eyes, gazing deep into his own. He feels a blush rise to his cheeks, and he is terribly embarrassed, but he cannot look away...

And then, quite suddenly, he is shoved back onto the bed, hands up above his head. Feliciano is holding up a length of rope, beaming as he trails it up between Ludwig's thighs, over his tightened stomach, over his chest, and up to meet the handcuffs.

"Ve," he says, happily, "Now hold still Ludwig..."

It is not as though Ludwig has much choice in the matter – Feliciano is astride him, thighs spread about his stomach. He knots the chain between the two cuffs to one of the bedposts surprisingly quickly, and moves off, picking up the riding crop again.

Ludwig tugs lightly, experimentally against his new restraints – and the rope slackens and unties.

"Oh!" says Feliciano in disappointment.

"You...you need to knot it at least twice," Ludwig tells him, feeling that although this whole Feliciano dominating him thing is very hot, they should have really planned it out properly beforehand – and receives a sharp smack on the leg.

"Ve – don't tell me what to do, Ludwig," Feliciano, says, eyebrows drawn together, as he rises up onto his knees. "I'm the boss, now, remember?"

Ludwig blinks in surprise, but manages, somehow, to stutter out another, "si," and adds "signore," for good measure, but this simply causes Feliciano to dissolve into giggles yet again as he re-ties the rope.

"I'm not that – ah! – that bad, am I?"

Feliciano glances up from where he is currently devouring the space between his lover's neck and left shoulder, and grins. "Quite bad," he says, and laughs again. Then his eyes darken, slowly, until they burn like the remains of the sun on a new night sky, and Ludwig almost loses it when he sees the tip of a little pink tongue dart out to wet Feliciano's delicious lips. "Actually," he says, and his voice is almost a purr, "Actually, Ludi – you're very bad. Very, very, very bad. Very naughty. I think I'll have to punish you," he finishes, and Ludwig slowly realizes that during this little speech he has subconsciously begun grinding against the Italian's leg.

"Wh-what?" he manages to choke out.

"Very bad," Feliciano repeats, and, with a surprising amount of grace, he climbs off his bound lover, still clutching the riding crop. Ludwig gets an eyeful of Feliciano's panties, which are clearly not designed for someone with male anatomy – they strain and sink around his erection – and he actually whimpers. _Gottverdammt,_ he thinks.

"Mmm," Feliciano is saying, picking his way through the toys on the floor. Ludwig cannot quite see which his little Italian picks up and keeps, and which he discards, and somehow, this just heightens the thrill. His stomach is rising and dipping like a wild horse, and his head spins and his heart pounds in sync with the half-crazed bucks and kicks, until his whole body beats to some primal beat long suppressed and forgotten.

"Ludwig," the brunet is saying, and he emerges, slowly, from the haze and the pounding, "Ludwig, wait here."

He doesn't have much choice, but he nods slowly, still confused and disorientated, and Feliciano vanishes from sight.

He lies still, quiet, and alone on the bed, his whole body gradually heating and swelling and churning and rising, and he grits his teeth until his jaw cracks, and Scheiße, he needs relief, he needs to be touched...the pressure in his heart and between his legs is mounting, and they have hardly done anything yet. He glances upwards, at his bound hands, and tugs a little at the restraints. This time, he remains firmly secured to the bed – and he grows even more aroused, if possible.

Somewhere, several rooms away, or downstairs perhaps, he can hear Feliciano rattling around, no doubt dislodging his carefully positioned possessions, breaking things, losing things, making a complete and utter mess of his home...oh God. His muscles – every single one of them – freeze up. Why, why, why the hell does this stupid thought make his skin prickle so? Hairs are standing up on the back of his neck, and on his arms...his stomach is swirling once again, and his heart is beating harder than ever before. His chest constricts. He is dangerously short of breath. And, to his shock and utter confusion, he finds himself teetering closer to the edge – and his lover isn't even in the same room as him.

Why on earth should he feel like this? Ludwig does not like chaos. Ludwig likes order, and reason, and cleanliness, and neatness...he likes things to be in their proper place, labelled and sharpened, ready for use. He likes colour co-ordination, and flow charts, and to-do lists, and tick boxes, and folders containing sub-folders, and whatever Feliciano is doing somewhere close by but out of sight is most definitely not orderly, logical, or neat. Ludwig likes to be in control. And yet here he is, handcuffed and tied to his bed, surrounded by whips and ropes and bondage tape, and all manner of other kinky restraints, listening to his absent-minded lover pottering about and disrupting the order and organization of his home, hard as a rock.

It is, truth be told, a little bit awkward.

"Ve!" The door bangs loudly against the wall (Ludwig winces a little, thinking of the chipped paint), and his own Little Italy appears, beaming like the sun and brandishing – oh, verdammt. Yes, admittedly his country has produced some of the most hardcore pornography films the world has to offer; and, indeed, he himself is rather keen on...certain...aspects of fetishism and...suchlike...but even he thinks that this is going a bit too far.

"Feli...wh-why have you...?"

"Ve...Ludwig..." The little Italian looks animalistic as he climbs onto the bed and crawls across the mussed sheets to his lover. "Don't worry, amore mio, I won't hurt you..." He smiles, and Ludwig does not feel reassured in the slightest.

Chinks of light from the naked window glint off the steel blades as Feliciano holds the scissors aloft, leaning down, moving closer and closer to the blond. Ludwig shuts his eyes, turns his face to one side, and presses his nose and mouth into the pillow. It smells spicy – of Feli, and kisses, late at night and first thing in the morning – and of whispered words of love and affection – and of sex, and sweat, and as the cool metal presses lightly against his stomach, his mouth opens involuntarily, and he gasps into the soft fabric.

There is a soft _snip, _and the air against his abdomen is cool.

He is not bleeding – or at least, he doesn't think he is.

Feliciano moves the scissors steadily higher – snip, snip, snip – and though Ludwig really liked that t-shirt, as his hips twitch in time with the kiss of the blades, he cannot find it in himself to protest.

His lover hums to himself – Ludwig is certain it is that ridiculous song he sang for him about Germany being "heaven for a dog," whatever that meant, not long after they first met – as he carefully cuts his way up the shirt, every so often stopping to kiss and lick a particularly delicious patch of skin as it was revealed to him. When he reaches Ludwig's jugular, and his teeth sink into the flesh there, Ludwig lets out a strangled, almost-silent moan, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

Feliciano makes short work of his sleeves, then tosses the scissors to the side, pulling the remains of his lover's shirt away. Ludwig struggles a bit, trying to press himself against Feliciano's thigh...he just needs some relief...anything to lessen the throbbing, pounding heat...

Then the smaller man moves up to his side, and his warm, firm thigh is gone.

"Feli..."

"We haven't finished yet, Ludi," Feliciano says cheerily, and reaches down to the floor for those terrible toys he put there previously. He brings his hand back up, holding what Ludwig recognises as a gag, waving it around inexpertly. "Ve...does this go in your mouth?"

Ludwig nods, rather nervously.

Feliciano smiles like an angel, and shuffles closer to the prone man's head, fumbling with the straps as he tries to figure out how it works. Ludwig lies motionless, waiting patiently until his little lover smiles, and sweetly asks him to lift his head up.

The straps tighten gradually around his head, and the little black ball between his lips presses against his tongue; makes him wretch and panic...but then Feliciano's hands are there – slender and soft and warm, tenderly stroking slightly sweaty strands of hair back off his forehead – and his voice is soft and breathy right beside his ear, whispering words of adoration, and comfort, and love, and lust...

His throat slackens, and his shoulders slide down, and he relaxes.

"Ludwig," Feliciano says softly, and the tips of those perfect fingers trace his brows, the bridge of his nose, his lips, his cheekbones, and move steadily, lovingly upwards into his hair.

One hand moves downwards; comes to rest upon his naval, and moves in slow circles, moving no higher than the bottom of his ribs; no lower than the dip of his hips.

"Ludwig,"

Without thinking, he tries to whisper something back – but his voice is stopped and muffled behind the ball gag – and the sound of himself, trapped and helpless starts those shivers and twitches all over again.

Feliciano smiles, and his big brown eyes are glowing, glistening with love – sheer love, that is all – and the last thing Ludwig sees for quite a while is his lover, riding crop resting in his lap, panties sticky, in plain sight between his casually spread thighs, holding a soft, shiny blindfold out towards him. Then all is black, and his world is nothing but the feel of Feliciano's dress and Feliciano's kisses against his naked torso.


	3. Chapter 3

Darkness.

He is submerged in total darkness, motionless, half-naked, bound, and at Feliciano's mercy.

But perhaps the phrase "Feliciano's mercy" isn't quite right. After all, the little Italian has never been particularly fierce, or frightening, or even determined (excepting, of course, in situations involving food), and though the sudden sensory deprivation sets Ludwig's heart racing, sends shivers down his spinal cord, breaks his skin out in a hot, hot sweat, he is not afraid. Not really. Feliciano would never hurt him.

Even as his lover begins to bite and suck at the pale skin just above his belt, digging his sharp little teeth in and out, he does it in such a way that it hardly hurts at all – all Ludwig feels is a swift jolt of pleasure – a pleasant tickle – and then it is gone, and that sweet tongue traces love hearts onto his flat, tensed stomach.

"Fel...ano..."

The gag snatches his words, and twists and distorts them.

Feliciano pauses in his cute, nippy kisses, his hands freezing where they had just begun to slowly, slowly undo Ludwig's belt and ease off his trousers. Ludwig can picture him clearly, raising his head, his eyes wide and anxious. He will be worried, Ludwig knows, because he knows his Feli so well, better than he knows himself in fact, that he has hurt his tall, blond lover. He feels his hands begin to shake, and he closes his long fingers around the handcuffs and rope at his wrists in order to steady himself.

He feels the whisper of Feliciano's dress against his heated, bare body, and whines again through the gag.

"Lu-Ludi? Ve? Are...are you h-hurt?" His voice trembles; his vocal chords catch on a rough ball of tears.

Frantically, Ludwig shakes his head, clenching his teeth around the gag. No, no...no, he isn't hurt, he isn't anywhere near hurt...he grips the metal and rope fibres even tighter in his sweaty hands.

A soft sniff, and Feliciano's hand slowly eases down to rest above his heart, which pounds faster and faster, as if desperate to break free of its flesh and bone prison, and meet its partner.

"Th-then..."

"More..." It is an effort, but he manages to grind the word out around the small black ball in his mouth. His lips quickly coat with thick saliva, and he is mortified when he feels a thin string of it drip down his chin – but then Feliciano traces a thumb along his jawline, and catches it, cleaning him, and follows the path with gentle kisses, at the same time raising one leg to straddle the taller man. The kisses become fiercer, almost hesitantly at first, and Ludwig realizes through the haze in his brain, that the other man is looking, as always for praise and reassurance.

"Ja," he whispers, and the object between his lips mangles his speech, but Feli – his Feli – he understands him perfectly.

He bites down again – harder, much harder this time – on the stretched-out space between Ludwig's neck and left shoulder; biting hard enough to leave bruises, biting hard enough to draw blood – and as he feels that first wonderful crimson drop slide down his collarbone, he raises his hips, and groans, and throws his head back. His vision is black, and his hands are bound, and that sweet, sore throb of broken skin feels so, so good...

"Oh!"

Feliciano's voice is sudden, startling. Ludwig jerks in surprise, once at his lover's initial exclamation, and then again when he feels a soft hand ghost over the bite mark.

"You're...Ludwig, you're bl-bleeding..."

He nods quickly, and moves his hips in an effort to make his little lover understand.

"Y-you really like it?"

Another nod. Feliciano's fingers touch him in just the right way, and he moans through the gag.

There is a pause, and Ludwig prays that Feliciano will not want to stop. God knows he would never force Feli into anything that made him uncomfortable, but this – this is just –

"Ahhh..."

There is a tongue there now – on the cut, and he unsteadily stumbles to the realization that Feliciano is kissing and licking and – _oh Gott – sucking_ the blood from the wound. His fingers drift lower, and Ludwig's eyes roll back in their sockets beneath the blindfold as he feels pointed, slender fingers curl tantalisingly around his erect nipples. His trousers are becoming extremely uncomfortable.

"Ve..." He feels, rather than hears the smaller man breathing the words into his neck, "if it makes Ludwig happy, I'll do it." Then he bites down again, and Ludwig, through the thick mist of pleasure that swiftly begins to envelope him, wonders vaguely how he will hide the marks at the next meeting. He has no desire to be mocked as Francis, version 2.0.

Feliciano continues to nip and lick him, his initial hesitance seemingly giving way to the hunger which consumes his lover, as his teeth sink in deeper; his fingers pinch and pull faster; his legs spread wider. "Ve," he murmurs, and Ludwig, somehow, knows exactly what is coming. "You taste better than pasta."

Ludwig is pleasantly surprised. The most he had hoped for was "as good as," but then the Italian moves, pressing hard kisses down his throat, coming to a halt where his fingers tease those tender, red points of flesh. He bites down.

His mind swirls; his hips arch up; and he moans again, desperate and feral against the gag. It seems, oddly enough, that when he is imprisoned, when he submits, when he is silenced, and only then, is he capable of revealing his innermost desires; of surrendering entirely to pleasure; and the very raw sounds coming from his own throat both shock and arouse him. His hips lift and rotate; apparently of their own accord; and his toes curl inwards inside his socks, repeatedly trying and failing to gain purchase on the damp, white sheets. His hands become fists; rocks; clenching and unclenching, and the long, strong muscles running the length of his arms stretch and flutter to the beat of his and Feliciano's hearts, singing as one.

The teeth marking his now swollen, purple nipples retreat, to be replaced by soft, wet kisses which leave his already sensitized flesh tingling and hot. Feliciano moves, pressing his legs as closely to Ludwig's sides as is humanly possible, and Ludwig feels the shift and fold of fabric rolling up, up against his taut stomach. Those layers of short skirt must have risen up, he realizes, and instantaneously he pictures Feli sprawled out atop him, his back curving beautifully as he presses himself close to his tall German lover. The backs of his sun-drenched thighs will be bared to the ceiling, and the slightly-too small panties will cling to the glistening, warm skin covering the rounds of his backside. He pictures the smaller man's feet as well – how Feli will press his little toes into the mattress, pointing his heels heavenwards; how the arches of his feet will lift, and lift, and lift...

A hand wanders, as if by accident, into his slightly messy hair, stroking strands which have fallen out of place across his forehead back against their brethren. It is a simple motion; and yet one so intimate and familiar, and gentle and – kind – that it almost causes him to tear up.

The lovely kisses have reached his chin, and his jaw, and his cheeks now; and when Feliciano kisses him softly – oh, so softly – upon the tip of his nose, Ludwig finds he is no longer in total control of his body as he lets out a ragged sob around his gag.

"Ludi..." whispers Feli, and he feels the Italian trace the shape of his brow, his cheekbones, his nose, his neck, down to his collarbones...

Feliciano moves, slowly, carefully, as though he is loathe to disrupt the peace of this sudden display of love – though that is Feli all over, really; embarrassing and thoroughly unexpected public displays of affection; although this one, of course, as anything but public – and, his head half-resting upon the larger man's flat stomach, clumsily undoes Ludwig's belt, unbuttons and unzips his trousers, and, almost reverently, slides them down his legs. He moves back up for his underwear, his breath seeming to glide over every single part of Ludwig's body; caressing him; making him whole with love.

Ludwig emits something like a gasp; something like a sigh when he feels his little lover's mouth at his hips; licking, tasting the sharp rise of bone, before moving down, down...

His underwear is too tight...he needs it off, now. The small damp patch that has been steadily growing ever since he opened the door to his bedroom and found Feliciano in a maid's dress, surrounded by bondage gear seems to be growing faster and faster. The muscles in his legs twitch.

"Ve...it's wet...you do like this, Ludi!" Feliciano exclaims, clearly delighted, and though Ludwig thinks he could just die with embarrassment, a part of him is relieved. He certainly has no desire to make Feli feel uncomfortable with any part of this.

Feliciano leans in close again – he feels his breath, and, embarrassingly, very nearly comes just from that – and takes the waistband between his teeth, catching some skin (quite by accident; Feli may be sexy, but he is still, and always will be, clumsier than a dog in stilettos), and does not stop to let it go before jerking sharply away. Ludwig cries out. The bitemark smarts beautifully.

His feet are cool, then – and somehow he manages to grasp that Feliciano has removed his socks. The round edges of short nails, beautifully kept, in total contrast to Ludwig's own, which are bitten down to stumps, a relic, Gilbert occasionally says, of a long-forgotten childhood, move up from his heels, over the soft bend of his soles, over the large ball of his feet, and up to his toes, torturously slowly. It tickles.

His legs jerk – his motions, now, it seems, are way beyond his own control – and he gasps for breath, suddenly oxygen-starved. Feli giggles, and creeps his fingers back down again.

Ludwig feels himself twitch. He is not quite one with his physical self, it seems. His head feels light – he is floating, some distance from where he originally lay – and though his rational, cold mind tries weakly to tug him back towards reality, he finds himself beginning to care less and less about what others will think of the marks on his neck; about how red his cheeks must be; about...about...and he cannot think of any more reasons to resist.

"Tickle tickle!" Feliciano exclaims, and exchanges scrabbling fingers for his tongue. He traces the protrusion of the hinge in his lover's ankle, lifts the leg up, struggling a little with the slight weight, and moves back towards the underside of Ludwig's knee. His breath is warm, and his free hand rests in a familiar manner upon Ludwig's left hip, and every so often he kisses the delicate skin there, catching a tendon between his front teeth.

Ludwig's chest and thighs tighten as Feliciano shifts again, moving higher still, sucking his way up his lover's inner thigh, letting his leg down gently, as he continues his steady exploration of the other's body. The smaller man's tongue moves inwards; he pauses to close his mouth on the join at the V of Ludwig's hips – and, oh, that is nothing short of heavenly...it stings, it stings a lot, and there will surely be a purple bite mark there by morning...but Gott in Himmel...

And then Feliciano's hot breath ghosts over his hard, steadily dripping erection, and he very nearly comes, there and then, without even being touched. His fists crack, and his head tips back, exposing the vulnerable strings of his throat...but he doesn't want to end like this. Not now, not without Feli. He needs more, more...he needs to submit completely, submerge himself in that strange, peaceful, floaty sensation he experienced earlier...he wants to bow down, to let go, to pass the whip to his lover, who so often has to bear the brunt of his control-freak, type-A regime, and does so without a single complaint, with a smile, and a loving kiss to the cheek. He wants to make Feliciano tremble with pleasure; dizzy with power...he would do anything and everything for his lover, he realizes suddenly, and he is just wondering how he can possibly articulate this, when the gag in his mouth is suddenly torn away, and there is a velvety tongue against his own, and, somehow, in this lusty muddle, he feels Feli's arm tighten around his shoulders, and hears him breath: "Make me feel good, too, Ludwig."


	4. Chapter 4

_Wow, guys, thanks for the reviews! I do love reading them, so if you've got a moment to let me know what you think, please do leave me a note! I'm glad you all like this fill so much =) Have some more before I go to work =D _

Feliciano smells sweet, and spicy, and musky all at once, and in the warmth between his legs – with his nose buried in his lover's lap, hands gently stroking his hair, Ludwig finds a kind of peace he had not known existed before now. He is floating once again; drifting further and further from the here and the now, and his own body, as if soaring heavenwards, and he would have panicked – but he cannot. He feels so _calm_, so serene...

He does not remember being manoeuvred to the floor, his hands re-joined at the base of his spine...he has forgotten the way Feliciano drew him up by the heartstrings; the way they danced, as one entity in a slow-motion swoop across miles and miles of bedding, and dipped low until his knees touched carpet. Feliciano's hands had remained at his shoulders, and his lips at his neck. The way he bowed his head before the smaller man, pressing one cheek against a smooth thigh, leaning forwards in surrender, baring his naked back, pressing his legs tightly together is not an occurrence in his mind. Nothing exists, but the warmth of Feliciano's body and soul, and the way he can kneel before him, submit and serve. He is flying away to a new plane of existence, leaving his body a half-inhabited shell; and yet he has never felt so alive.

He tries to whisper to his lover, to call Feliciano's name, but his lips feel stretched out and useless; thick flaps of rubber, and though he can feel words forming in his throat, the second they meet the hot air of the bedroom they vanish into nothingness, dying the second they are born. He hisses and sighs, entirely unable to say or do anything.

Fingers, shorter and slimmer and infinitely more artistic than his own long, strong ones drag slowly, gently across his scalp. Feliciano's nails do not scratch or pause to dig in, but Ludwig can feel their smooth, sharp edges against his skin. He shudders as a chilled bullet shoots down his spine, leaving his back and arms and stomach trembling.

"Ludi..." Feliciano breathes, and, as though drawn by a magnet, Ludwig's muscles soften, and he falls forward into his lover's lap. The little Italian's soft hands catch his shoulders and though the world in which he now exists is soundproofed, locked and bolted against everything that is not the glorious union between himself and Feliciano, everything inside his great universe is intensified and sharpened to almost painful extremes. He feels the slight shake of Feli's hands as they move across his body, leaving him to support himself by pressing even further forward into the bed, between Feliciano's legs...

That maid's dress flutters against his cheek, and he breathes in the scent of it.

Then the smaller man's fingers are at his wrists, unlocking the handcuffs – and though for one brief moment Ludwig, coming back to himself slightly, rejoices at being able to touch his lover properly again, and moves his arms, spreading his hands out across Feli's tighs, revelling in the feel of smooth, warm skin, so familiar, yet so delicious he cannot ever get enough – he also feels a strange sense of disappointment. Though he loves holding, caressing, touching Feliciano...adores it...that strange, half-waking state he had slipped into previously still calls to him. He can feel the outside world again, and he does not want that. He wants Feli, and only Feli...he wants to pleasure him, submit to him, serve him, mind and body and soul...

He breathes in, deeply, as Feliciano's hands skip back up his spine, easily crossing the plane of his shoulders, and as those fingers nestle in his hair, he presses his left cheek to the other man's inner thigh. Feliciano smells of sweat, and and pre-cum, and sin, and all that is Holy, and Ludwig, not for the first time, thinks that this is the only thing that is truly worth dying for. He stretches his neck out a little further as Feli's fingertips continue to stroke; just pulling at the softest hair at the nape of his neck very slightly – and his cheeks are so red when the very tip of his tongue presses experimentally against the bulge in his lover's stained panties he thinks he must be radiating more heat than the core of the sun.

"Ah!"

Feliciano's legs, resting either side of his body tighten and lift. Each and every one of his muscles tenses, and his fingers snap shut; strong, pinching clasps around the roots of his hair.

Ludwig shifts a little further forward, despite the slight increase in pain it causes in his scalp, and just about manages to wrap his whole mouth around the hot swell between Feli's slender thighs.

"Argh..."

The second moan is softer, lower; more guttural and feral. Feliciano's grip on his hair tightens tenfold, and suddenly Ludwig is jerked sharply backwards. His palms hit soft carpet, and the intoxicating heat from the Italian's body is gone. He is down on the floor, on his hands and knees, blind and naked.

For whatever reason – probably the fairly sizeable number of BDSM porn movies he's watched throughout his adult life – he expects a sharp smack; perhaps to the side of his face; and so he tenses, and drops his head, gritting his teeth as he waits impatiently for the blow to fall. His heart is pounding fit to burst, and he feels his cock begin to twitch and drip.

But the blow does not land.

He waits.

Through the thick haze which descended with the hard tug on his hair, Ludwig can dimly hear anxious, quick breathing, accompanied by nervous "Ve"'s. The cogs in his brain slowly begin to clank round, and he is just wondering whether or not it is all getting a bit much for poor Feli (though his very soul screams "No!") when he feels a shaking hand creep up to rest beneath his chin.

"Ve...L-Ludwig...?"

He looks up towards the source of the voice. Feliciano must have moved down to face him, but all he can see against the tight, black blindfold are the stars behind his own eyelids.

"L-Ludi?" Feliciano seems scared. "Lud...Ludwig...are – have I h-hurt you?"

Ludwig considers. He is hurt – a bit, just a bit – but not nearly enough. He shakes his head.

"Ve – you're not hurt?"

There is a soft thump – the sound of Feliciano landing before his lover on his knees – and, drawn towards him by some invisible red thread, Ludwig reaches out, unseeing, takes the smaller man's soft hands in his own, and drops forwards, until his face is once more pressed into Feliciano's lap.

The dress licks his hungry neck, and once more, Ludwig, desperately, hungrily, licks Feliciano.

The brunet gasps; thighs tensing all over again, and Ludwig reflects that of course his actions would merit such a reaction from Feli; during sex in the past, he has always – always – been the aggressor. Certainly, at times Feliciano would instigate things; but it was always, clearly, Ludwig who was dominant. He honestly cannot for the life of him think of the last time he'd got down on his knees and sucked his lover off – that was what Feliciano did. Feliciano sucked him, Ludwig allowing himself to inch closer and closer to the precipice every time, then, when he was barely able to hold back from oblivion any longer, he threw Feliciano down on the bed (or the couch, or the table, or the ground, or against the wall), and fucked him.

Above, he hears Feliciano cry out again, letting out his name as a gasp which morphs into a strained, drawn-out moan. With his lips, and his tongue, he can feel how Feliciano hardly fits into those small, tight panties...how his erection swells and hardens with every bump against Ludwig's hands and mouth.

He feels Feli raise his legs, laying himself open, and so he rears up, pressing further into his lover. Feliciano's feet are startlingly cold against his lower back, but as the ankles cross, one over the other, physically holding Ludwig within him again, the soft walls of the prison descend yet again, and it just doesn't matter anymore.

Almost without thinking about it, Ludwig squeezes Feliciano's right hand tightly in his own, and, pressing his cheek hard against the smaller man's warm thigh, guides it down to his chest. Feliciano's fingers twitch slightly – ever so slightly between his. The tips of his well-kept nails scrape over the red, hardened points of his nipples, and Ludwig tightens his hand over his lover's.

It stings.

He inhales sharply, and presses his face into Feliciano's stomach. The dress smells sweet and clean, and ever so faintly of pasta.

He lets go of Feli's hand. The little Italian's heart beats somewhere just above his ear; Feliciano is leaning down; towards him, over him, and he cannot prevent a strange, throaty whine from leaving his dry throat as it comes to him, as these things do, that he is surrounded, encompassed, possessed entirely by Feli. His toes curl in the carpet, and his knuckles turn slowly white as he grips the edge of the mattress and the hem of his lover's dress.

Feliciano is still working his fingers slowly over his nipple. At first the movements were cautious; hesitant. He had touched, flicked the flesh gently with the very tips of his fingers, almost curiously, though after so long of sleeping naked beside the taller man, he knows every inch of his lover's body better than he knows his own. Ludwig waits, and waits, as the Italian's explorations grow steadily more confident and purposeful; he scissors the blood-filled points between the lengths of his tanned fingers, squeezing and poking; taking them in the soft pads at his fingertips; and now, unreservedly pinching and twisting, actually digging his nails in whilst in his lap, the once-great Deutschland moans and gasps like the whore he has always wanted to be, pressing his face into the folds of that dress, and the steadily leaking erection barely concealed beneath it.

"It feels good?" Feliciano whispers, and it takes almost a minute for Ludwig to answer.

"Ja...ja...Feli –"

"In Italiano!"

"S-si!" he quickly corrects himself. "Si, Fel-Feli..." A rattling groan is ripped from his chest as Feliciano's hands move faster, more roughly upon his chest. "I...ah! P-più, per favore..."

Feliciano's grip on him slackens off somewhat. He giggles musically. "Ve, Ludi...you still aren't very good."

Ludwig's cheeks are still scarlet, but buried in the soft material of his lover's dress, it doesn't matter. Feliciano's hand moves again; up from his now sore chest, over his collarbone, his neck, and rests for a moment against the side of the taller man's face.

"I...think I want to tie you up again...is that okay?" he adds, and Ludwig can only nod, his breath quickening.

"But, erm...uh, I don't like the handcuffs, or the rope. I keep knotting myself up, ve!" He laughs cheerfully.

Ludwig raises his head slowly, trying to regain control of his breathing.

"Ve, Ludi, where's that sticky tape stuff?"

Ludwig feels the little Italian shift against him, stand up, and move away. Involuntarily, he lets out a soft moan of regret.

"Be patient!" Feliciano exclaims, and giggles almost manically. "Ve, Ludi, Ludi, it's like we've switched places. Hey..."

There is a crashing sound, and Ludwig, still on his hands and knees, quickly recoils, snatching back his hand from where he'd been reaching out after his lover. With pain, he thinks of collapsed shelves in his closet; of all that mess littering his bedroom floor. Unsurprisingly, the thought of it (aided by Feliciano's presence, wearing that awful, wonderful maid's outfit) just turns him on even more.

"Ve...Ludi..." Feliciano's voice is a little muffled. "I recognize this..."

Footsteps, and Ludwig feels Feliciano stop no less than a foot away from his spot on the floor.

"Ve! Italy!" he shouts, in a very poor imitation of the other man's voice. "No more pasta for you! Give me ten laps! Behave yourself!" He giggles again, then his warm breath is ghosting over Ludwig's face. "It's your old panzer grenadier cap," he explains, mangling the pronunciation, and Ludwig feels a slight weight on the top of his head; presumably he is wearing the hat now.

"Oh!" says Feli, suddenly, and he is closer to Ludwig; much closer. "Here's that funny tape. I was sat on it earlier, ve. Hee hee, how silly of me!"

Ludwig is about to question just how it is possible to sit on such a thing without realizing it – but then the scratchy, squealing sound of the bondage tape being unrolled hits his ears, and Feliciano is firmly pulling his arms upwards and in front of him, causing his lover to almost collapse onto the floor, and taping his wrists together. His breath comes in gasps, and moans, and every moment spent being bound tighter and tighter, tighter than he ever thought possible – at his wrists, forearms, calves, ankles – is nothing short of pure heaven.

The tape nips and groans against him, tugging at the tiny, fine hairs on his arms and legs, and every time Feliciano bites the tape, breaking it, he is sure to catch Ludwig's red skin between his teeth, and by the time the blond man is tied and unmoving on the floor, he is quivering all over, gasping into the carpet, his eyes watering as he silently begs Feliciano for more.


	5. Chapter 5

_Thanks again for the lovely comments! They make my day, fo' real, so if you have a moment, please do leave me a comment, be it concrit or a smiley face. Now on with the fic..._

Being trapped in bondage tape is, Ludwig notes briefly and very vaguely, for he has much more pressing matters on his mind, as well as against his crotch, rather different to being trapped in handcuffs. For one thing, when he was cuffed to the bed, he could still move around – or at least he could when compared to how it feels being bound up in sticky black tape. His legs, for one thing, are completely and utterly trapped; pinned together firmly at the calves and ankles; and the way his wrists are imprisoned leaves no space for the thinnest sliver of air; let alone give and movement.

He is shaking, he realizes, after the brief dazed spell he weathers out, acclimatizing himself to this strange, black world where is cannot move or see – or talk, really, because although he is no longer gagged, something, some unseen pressure forcing obedience upon him, making him arch his back and lower his head until the pressure of the soft carpet against his face renders him completely silent, makes him grit his teeth, or worry at his lips until they are raw, and ever so slightly bloodied. The metallic tang of that red liquid seeps backwards onto his tongue, scalding him, and a shiver cuts a sharp path down his spinal cord.

"Ludwig..." says Feliciano, and it seems to Ludwig that the other man is somewhere very far away from him...or is it just that strange, wonderful floating sensation kicking in again? The latter seems rather more likely...the floor beneath him no longer feels entirely solid; it shifts and rocks beneath his hands and knees like a piece of flotsam being swept in and away from the shore – not quite on solid ground, but not quite at sea, either.

"Ludwig," Feliciano whispers again, and this time Ludwig knows it is that floaty feeling, because all of a sudden he can feel warm breath against his neck and shoulders; and then gentle, shaking hands pull him slowly upright.

He is bound at the elbows; and so balancing is a little awkward, especially in this confusing state of arousal and haziness. He feels separate from his body, somehow; and his mind as well, which is, he realizes, almost with a sudden feeling of panic, rather terrifying. Ludwig, after all, lives on his mind. He very rarely relies on feelings, or gut instinct; instead, he will read, and listen, and watch, and stow away every piece of information he acquires alphabetically in his brain for later usage. Losing himself to a world of touch and taste, and the lurching of his stomach, and the fluttering of his heart as Feliciano caresses his naked body and soul with hands and lips and soft endearments, is, he reflects, very difficult.

Feliciano is still murmuring his name, over and over again, the sound becoming more and more desperate, the pitch rising, the breaths he gulps down like water growing deeper and louder. The kisses become more feverish and messy...he tips his head as far back as he possibly can when Feliciano's tongue straight up licks him right down the neck. He feels a bead of saliva trickle slowly down his jugular, curve around the muscle, and come to rest in the dip above his left collarbone. Nails and teeth dig in, and he clasps his hands before his stomach, coiling his fingers tightly as if praying, though he has not prayed in around seventy years, give or take.

Still Feliciano continues to whisper to him; his name over and over and over again, in a strange babbling mixture of Italian, German, and English which he is unable to separate or properly discern. All he hears, really, is his own name, whimpered like a prayer or a curse, or something in between, and Feliciano's heavy, desperate breathing against his shuddering, feverish skin.

He closes his eyes beneath the blindfold, and everything darkens all over again. With a soft moan he is unable to suppress, he allows his head to drop forwards, and come to rest on Feli's shoulder. He feels lace and satin against his cheek. The Italian's ridiculous, adorable, thoroughly arousing dress smells of new clothes, and sex, and that strange, sweet flowery scent that is purely Feliciano. The contrast between the cool, smooth fabric, and the heated dampness of his lover's skin sets his blood aflame, and he presses himself further against that beloved body as his hands move from the carpet and journey upwards, up over Feliciano's folded thighs, taking the skirt with them.

Feliciano lets out a soft, "Oh –" something like a moan, and something like a sigh, and Ludwig presses a kiss to the smaller man's neck, and moves his hands right round to cup the other's backside, his long, slightly clumsy fingers pushing and pulling the tight, frilly panties away from that delicious, heated skin.

"Ludi," whispers Feliciano, and his lips are shaking, Ludwig knows, "Ludi – oh!"

Ludwig presses his face even further into the crook of his lover's neck, as if seeking shelter and comfort and protection – which he is, in a way, he thinks, because he cannot stop his obsessively analytical mind from whirring, even in situations like this – and his fingers slip higher, and he feels his heartbeat quicken and his legs begin to tremble as he pulls Feli's underwear down – just a little – just enough so his lover's hard, wet arousal presses firmly against his stomach – just enough so he can move his fingers to his entrance, and push the tips of his fingers so that little pucker begins to give – just a bit.

Feliciano moans, the sound coming from deep within his chest and rising through his throat in a desperate hiss, and parts his legs. Ludwig hears his name in that sound, somewhere, and is about to kiss the smaller man once more – on the lips this time – when Feliciano rises above him, and that warmth is gone.

He feels a sudden, sharp pain deep inside himself the second Feli leaves; one he knows he has felt sometime before, but never like this...never with this intensity, with this clarity...the world tosses around him, and without Feliciano, he is blind, and bound, and so, so afraid. He calls to his lover, his throat dry, his voice smaller than it usually sounds, and the response of his own name, spoken in Feliciano's trembling trill – that delectable, carnal sound reserved for his ears only is the sweetest music he has ever heard. He struggles towards it on his hobbled arms and legs, and then there is a steadying hand cupping his chin, completely at odds with the way he knows Feli is panting and shaking and groaning, desperate for his touch. He falls still.

"Ludwig..." says Feliciano, and the fingers around Ludwig's jawline are a complete contrast to the hesitant whisper of his voice. Ludwig stills, and leans into them, impossibly grateful for the firmness, the rock, the raft he can cling to – or, perhaps, the raft which clings to him. Feliciano's hand holds him tightly, keeping him pinned to the spot almost effortlessly...then draws him slowly forwards, and Ludwig's own hands clench in the material of Feli's panties.

He almost topples over when he feels the heat of Feliciano's thighs against his face and neck, and naked chest – but he gathers himself just in time, and wriggles his knees forwards a little, muscles straining against the tight, stinging tape, pushing his bare toes forwards in order to brace himself against the floor.

His left hand tightens on his lover's hip, and Feli's fingers slide up his jaw to the nape of his neck, then curl in his hair, holding on just tight enough to burn...just a little bit. He pushes one of his fingers with a tad more insistence against Feliciano's entrance.

The smaller man gasps, his fingers forming a fist against Ludwig's scalp, and one of his legs lifts to rest lightly on his lover's back. Ludwig can feel the way the nerves in that lovely, slender leg make it bounce, ever so slightly, up and down...up and down...

Feliciano is on the bed now, sat right on the edge, and again he has to shuffle, burning his knees slightly as he moves dutifully towards him. The scratching, hot sensation shoots up his thighs, and down his calves like wildfire. He feels something thin and hard just brushing against one of his wrists, and, with a jolt, he recognizes it as his own riding crop. It moves against him, the leather tongue licking the very fine hairs on his arms, and he pictures Feliciano seizing it, gripping it as if desperate to find purchase in the same swirl of pleasure Ludwig is lost in.

Finally, his front is pressed right up against the edge of the bed, and he is able to manoeuvre his elbows against the side of the mattress so that he can push a couple of fingers into his mouth, and suck on them. Above him, he hears Feli gasp, and he draws them slowly from between his lips, soaking wet, and licks lewdly up the length of them one last time like a common slut.

Feli makes a small sound that could be a whimper, and whispers, "Ve...Ludi...hurry..."

The crop twitches against the back of his wrist, and Ludwig cannot resist shifting his conjoined arms a little, moving the instrument between his and his lover's bare skin. Feliciano's breath hitches – he hears it, clear as day. "Now!" he whispers, more insistent, and Ludwig's heart beats even faster, and his stomach churns with delight. "Now! Ludwig –"

Ludwig licks his fingers again, and moves, as though making to pull away from the Italian.

Feliciano groans – not a pouting whimper this time, but a real, guttural cry of lust – and hisses "No!" even as the crop falls hard against Ludwig's leg.

There is a pause – a tense moment, stretched tighter than a drumskin between them, in which they respectively sit and kneel, completely motionless. Then Ludwig feels the gentle burn sharpen and begin to spread, and it stings, Gott in Himmel, it hurts, it really hurts, but it feels so, so good...

He stretches every one of his muscles – relishing the burn against the tape – and arches his back, his whole body shuddering with pleasure at the pop and snap, and oh, it feels so good, so good...

"L-Ludwig?" Feliciano's voice is very quiet, but this time, there is no tremble to it.

He moves once more, this time taking his fingers from his mouth as he was previously instructed, and presses up against both the bed and his lover.

"Feli...so...feels...so good..." he manages to choke out, though his cheeks are scarlet and his head is bowed with embarrassment.

It takes the smaller man a while to answer; but when he does, he voice is full of love. "Ti amo," he whispers, and his hands move slowly, tenderly through Ludwig's hair. "Ti amo, Ludi." Then he spreads his legs, and says softly: "Now...make me feel good now..."

Because of the way his wrists are pinned together, Ludwig has to move both hands beneath Feliciano; he curls one of them in the damp material of the Italian's underwear, which is already thick with sweat and pre-come. Usually, he would have made a comment about how sensitive and impatient his little lover is – but now, he thinks, shuddering with bliss as Feli traces the leather riding crop over the pale expanse of his back, is perhaps not the best time. The leather tongue of the crop moves this way and that, and Ludwig cannot prevent his feet wriggling in sheer pleasure.

"Ve..." says Feliciano suddenly, just as Ludwig is pulling the panties aside and pressing the very tip of a middle finger against his entrance. "Guess what I just drew on your back, Ludi?"

"Pasta," says Ludwig, and without further ado pushes his wet finger inside.

Feliciano's legs spread even wider apart, his thighs tensing and rising, his hand tightening in Ludwig's sweat-slicked hair...

"Ahh...ohhh...ve, y-you weren't...mmm...weren't supposed to guess – ah! Ahhh...guess it right, Ludi..."

"Sorry," says Ludwig, and he smiles even as Feliciano smacks the crop down against the back of his thigh again. Clearly, Feliciano hasn't really got a clue about this whole domination and submission thing...that, he thinks, his body heating up in a thoroughly delightful manner, will have to be rectified as soon as...

But then the hand in his hair clenches down even more tightly, and this time, the smack of the crop falls upon his backside. He gasps out loud, and surges forwards, his lips practically colliding with Feliciano's erect length.

"Mmm," says Feliciano. "That's...ohhh, so, so, so much more better than pasta..."

He opens his mouth, pausing to see if Feli will tug him back again, but he only receives another smack in the same place as before, and oh, oh Verdammt, his whole body is tingling, and once more, he is slipping under...slowly drifting away.

Somehow, Feliciano seems to register the change in him, and his hand strokes through his hair, still tugging, because he knows, he knows so well how much Ludwig likes having his hair pulled, but soothing him as well, scraping gently along his reddened scalp with sharp, neatly rounded nails, easing him into oblivion. The crop in his other hand moves in circles across the crimson marks on his thighs and backside, making him twitch and whimper around Feliciano's cock every time they cease in their movements to press into that overly sensitized patch of skin...

It is far too hot.

He feels himself floating again, being carried away, far away, and he presses himself close to his little lover once more, his face in that soft, soft dress, his right hand working away at that sensitive spot deep inside the Italian, his left gripping flesh and underwear and just a sliver of the back of the skirt, and his mouth sliding up and down Feliciano's length.

It is almost automatic, though in the past it has usually been Feli who does this for him. His body moves of its own accord, existing for the single, vital purpose of pleasuring Feliciano like nothing and nobody else can, and, somehow, he relishes this, and buries himself deeper into Feliciano.

His fingers, embedded deep between the smaller man's legs twist and crook just the way Feli likes it, and when the Italian cries out, and, none-too-gently (or at least, for him), forces his cock all the way down Ludwig's throat with a snap of his hips and a tug of his hand, he feels a strange, vague sense of euphoria overcome him. He is completely lost, for the first time in his life, and he loves it.

Feliciano comes hard, with a choked gasp that could once have been his lover's name, and relinquishes his grip on both the crop and Ludwig's hair as he does so. Ludwig's fingers slide slowly, carefully from Feli's entrance, and curl in the smaller man's lap, holding his dress like a baby would, all desperation and vulnerability and innocent insistence, and his face, spotted a little with come slides down to rest beside his hands, and though he himself is so hard it is actually physically painful, he does nothing about it – just sits in obedient, dark silence, revelling in the feeling of Feliciano's trembling hands on the crown of his head.


	6. Chapter 6

Perhaps, wrapped up in layers upon layers of dark mist, Ludwig sleeps, because he is utterly unable to discern the passage of time, pressed up against Feliciano's leg – a mere three seconds could have passed since Feli's hips jerked against him in ecstasy – or three centuries. The soft material of the Italian's maid dress shifts, like a sigh, and he revels in it; in the soft, slow pulse of fabric against his heated face and neck, and those warm, sweaty thighs, one of which he leans against, whilst clutching at the other, finding it somehow comforting. This one still rests over his shoulder, and every so often, the little Italian's foot twitches, and his toes curl. If he was not delirious, Ludwig would have declared the situation nothing short of heavenly (though not in these exact terms; after all, he still struggles to express such tender sentiments, even in private), but sightless, living at that moment, purely for Feliciano, such things do not matter to him.

After a while (a minute? A millennia?), Feliciano's hands begin to move, stroking Ludwig's blond hair, which has by this point fallen across his eyes, pushing back the way he likes it. With no gel to secure it, sections of it simply flop forwards again, but Ludwig hardly cares, and Feliciano, who regularly claims that Ludwig looks "super sexy!" with a fringe, just makes a small humming noise, and begins to stroke his lover's temples instead.

They do not speak, though Feli makes little noises of pleasure, still apparently enjoying the buzzing aftershocks, but then again he would not be Feliciano Vargas if he wasn't constantly making some sort of racket – still, they don't actually need to say a thing. Ludwig, certainly, has lost all powers of speech by this point. Besides, he thinks, or dreams, because still he does not know what is real – if he is awake, in his bedroom, in the trenches, in Italy, upside down, dead or alive – he has far more important things to do with his mouth. He feels himself moving a little to lick up the small splodges of come that have spilt down Feli's thighs, and along the V-shape of his hips, and still he does not feel one with his body. He feels numb, as though anaesthetised, and peaceful, and though he knows he is shaking, and he can feel skin, and silk, and the firmness of the mattress against his chest, and his own hardness, he feels more like an observer, a passenger, and he is calm...so calm...

"Ve," says a little, pleasure-soaked voice above him, "Hey, Ludi...Ludi...do I taste nice? What do I taste like? Is it nice? Huh?"

It takes some time for Ludwig to pull back; to force his lips, which feel puffy and useless, like soft rubber, to form the shapes needed for words to be formed. He tries to speak, but it is difficult – only a soft whisper manages to make it up from his throat – and he is about to panic, surfacing violently and unpleasantly from the depths of peace to run and fetch a manual, or his laptop, and find out whether giving a blowjob can make one lose his or her voice – when he feels himself rising upwards...Feliciano's hands are wrapped gently around his shoulders, pulling him up until he is only a couple of inches shorter than his lover...those hands begin to stroke and soothe again, tracing the curve of his jaw, sliding slowly down his neck so he can reach up with his short, slender thumbs, flatten them against his lover's skin, slide them into Ludwig's hollow cheeks, following the sharp line of his cheekbones upwards and into his hairline.

Ludwig feels his whole body relax. Feliciano leans in closer, presses kisses against his forehead, down his nose, against his mouth...

"So what did I taste of?" Feli's tongue, and his plump lips catch on Ludwig's ear. His breath is warm. Ludwig shudders.

"I'll...give you three guesses..." he manages. His voice is still strained and slurred, but now they are cheek to cheek – and it is so warm...

"Oh! Oh! Pasta?" Feliciano tries, his loud, excited voice almost ruining the moment.

Ludwig smiles, trying to arrange himself into a more comfortable position. It is tricky, what with his arms and legs tied so tightly together, and he is loathe to leave Feliciano's lovely lips, but his lap is a welcome substitute.

"Is it, Ludwig?" Feliciano is saying, seemingly totally unaware that what his lover has just said is simply an expression.

"J-ja."

"Yay!" Feliciano cheers. "That's good! I was worried you wouldn't like it, and that you'd get mad, because sometimes I don't like how you taste, and I didn't know if I'd taste nice or not, and I was kind of scared to try and find out on my own, but now I know you think I taste yummy...ve, that makes me happy, Ludi!"

Ludwig just smiles weakly, somewhat embarrassed, and slides back down to the floor, his still-painfully hard cock dragging uncomfortably against his lover's shin. Feliciano's legs are slim, and he can feel the bone through the skin, and the soft puppy fat, and the very small amount of muscle which resides there, and, predictably, the rigidity of that sharp bone against his arousal just serves to turn him on even further.

He hears himself moan, through a thick fog, as though he has a bad head cold. Feliciano laughs.

"Ve...it's, um...kind of uncomfortable, right Ludi?"

"Mmm..."

Of course, still wearing the blindfold, Ludwig cannot see a thing, but he hears that silly giggle, and can picture perfectly in his mind the wide grin, the way Feli will no doubt be peering coquettishly through his eyelashes, biting down on his flushed lower lip...

"Ve...would you like to...er...you know?"

With horror, Ludwig realizes his hips are minutely humping against the smaller man's leg. "Wh-what?" he says, his throat still tight and dry.

But Feliciano still hears him, apparently, and leans forwards a little – Ludwig feels his breath against his cheek – and mumbles his question once more, his voice slightly lower in pitch than usual, and oh, Scheiße, that's fucking sexy...only this time he whispers "come," as though it's a bad word.

Stupid Catholic upbringing, Ludwig thinks, then realizes dimly that he himself has problems with holding hands, so really, he isn't one to scoff. Feli's leg rises off the carpet slightly, pressing up against his hardness, and he groans and grits his teeth.

"Ja...ja, b-bitte." The sounds coming from his mouth don't sound like words any more.

"Ve!" says Feli, more loudly this time, and he almost sounds cross. "Ti ho detto di parlare in Italiano!"

"Per...p– ahhh...per favore...fammi..." He trails off, hissing. He isn't quite sure how to say "Please let me come," in Italian. That particular topic has never arisen in any language lesson he's had, ever.

Still, Feliciano seems satisfied. Or at least, he doesn't press further for an answer. Instead, he gives his own, rather short, and uncharacteristically sharp response to the other's plea.

"Ummm...ve, no."

Ludwig feels himself twitch, and presses even harder against Feliciano, burrowing his head further and further into his skirts, even as he feels those short, fine fingers begin carding through his hair once more, alternately tightening and releasing around those sweaty strands. He gasps out loud, and promptly inhales a mouthful of fabric.

Feliciano allows him to keep moving against his stocking-covered leg, even pressing back against him once or twice, bringing him steadily towards the brink...closer, and closer...blood pounds frantically in Ludwig's head, and he finds himself mindlessly mouthing silent entreaties and endearments into the Italian's lap as he ruts himself closer and closer to ecstasy. He must look disgusting, he thinks, but with every press against his lover; with every sharp spiral of pleasure that coils down his cock, he falls deeper and deeper into himself, until finally he is nothing but tingling nerves.

Against the side of his face, through damp silk, he feels Feliciano gradually growing hard again, and tries, with his sore, bound hands, to guide him into his mouth, all the while still humping desperately against the smaller man. He feels the hot thighs on either side of his body tighten momentarily, then fall apart, and he imagines his little Italian sat splay-legged on the edge of their bed, and...oh, Gottverdammt – oh, Scheiße – he is close, so close...

"Ah – oh, Gott..."

And then the pressure against his cock is gone, and Feliciano is pulling away, and he is perilously balanced on the edge, tied up in bondage tape, the back of his thighs smarting from the strikes of the riding crop, and holy fuck, if this isn't the hottest thing in the history of the universe –

"Not yet, ve..." Feliciano says, and Ludwig can hear that adorable pout; that slight whine that so often makes him smile, despite himself.

"Pl-please..."

"Ve – no!" Then Feliciano pushes him backwards with the ball of his foot, and Ludwig only just manages to catch himself, his taped-up legs and arms buckling terribly. He tries to reach out again for his lover, but Feliciano has disappeared, and for a brief moment, he is consumed by panic.

"Feli," he whispers, and he would usually be ashamed of how desperately he calls his lover's name; how shaky and frightened his voice sounds – but his world is still shrunken, reduced to Feliciano and only Feliciano, and now that the smaller man has disappeared, existence itself has been reduced to nothing.

He opens his mouth to beg for his lover once again, but then the floorboards creak, and gentle, loving hands come down to cup his face like something precious.

"I don't want Ludi to – to...come," Feliciano says, squirming over the words a bit, "Not yet. I want...I want...I want Ludi to know how I feel when he's busy working...how much I miss him...how much I need...you..."

There is a short, pregnant pause, and Ludwig can't really think of anything soothing, or apologetic, to say to the younger man. Perhaps he isn't meant to speak at all.

Feliciano continues to run his hands down his lover's neck; across his collarbones, and back up, to stroke his jaw. There is a tentativeness there...the smaller man is asking permission, Ludwig knows, which is unusual for Feli. Normally, when he wants something, he just goes right ahead and takes it, in his sweet, clueless fashion. Even back during The War, in the middle of a battle, or a training session, or an Axis meeting, the second the hour hand on the nearest watch or clock hit three, Feliciano would be out for the count, and no matter how much Ludwig protested, shouted, bullied, demanded, begged him to "just get on with things," or to "take this more seriously," it would not make a shred of difference. Feliciano, for all his cuteness, can be surprisingly stubborn.

Yet the featherlight touches he presses to the taller man's body are gentle and cautious...and when Ludwig thinks of how typical this is of their relationship; of how he usually dives right in to whatever needs to be done, all practicality and "this must be done, I have orders, this was planned, I shall do it now," Feliciano prefers to go with what he feels...he likes to slow down, to check how others are feeling first, to attend to his lover, and when this occurs to him, and he thinks about how loving and gentle and kind the little Italian is, and wonders how on Earth he has got so lucky, a sharp breath catches in the back of his throat, and he almost breaks.

"P-per favore," he whispers again, and Feliciano takes the time to administer a quick, loving kiss to the top of his head before slipping down to the floor, settling himself immediately before his lover.

Ludwig hears things being picked up close by, examined, considered, and his stomach flips and his cock pulses and weeps at the images assaulting his mind. He is so aroused, so desperate for release, and he has no idea how it has got to this. Feliciano allows him to shuffle closer, to lean in, to rest his head in the crook of his neck, and even raises an arm to wrap an arm about Ludwig's back, stoking up and down his hot, hard muscles, soothing and calming him.

He is drenched in what can only be described as sunlight; he is warm, blissed-out, almost flying, and so when the gag, wet and cold from where it sat earlier, is re-introduced to his mouth, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Nothing matters anymore, not really. Feli's hands continue to caress and hold him, relaxing every single muscle in his overworked body, relieving knots and stresses he didn't even know existed, and without his sight, he feels oddly at ease – Feliciano sees for him know, Feliciano manipulates his body to move, to release tension, to relax...Feliciano opens and closes and binds his mouth, and this, strangely enough, comforts him; makes him feel loved and cared for.

His shoulders begin to sag, and he is travelling further now, further than he has ever done before...it is so quiet, so warm, and he is so happy. The terrible, wonderful arousal he has been plagued with ever since he opened his door and was confronted with the sight of his lover clad in a green maid's dress and stockings, sorting through whips and gags and all manner of restraints, apparently "playing" with them, has reached a sort of plateau, and though he knows he is in danger of dropping over the edge at any moment, he thinks he can probably trust himself not to; after all, this sensation is just too delicious to give up.

Still, his head tips back, and he cries out through the gag in a wordless plea of white noise when Feliciano's delightful, slender fingers, coated in something thick and slick and cool wrap carefully around his length and move steadily from base to tip. The feeling is so good, so voice-haltingly perfect, that he hardly notices when something firm closes around his neck, until he jerks back a little from the wildly spiralling pleasure between his legs, and finds it there, tight and unrelenting.

"Is...ve...Ludi, this is – okay, si?" He is horny, and hopeful, and Ludwig can picture perfectly this bright red flush spreading rapidly across the smaller man's body.

He moans softly, and nods, and begs – and then he is pulled sharply forwards, rocking right over his knees, and Feliciano is kneeling against the bed, forcing Ludwig inside of him, and the taller man can do nothing but throw his conjoined wrists over the Italian's head, and bury his face in Feliciano's perfect back as the desperate throb of his arousal between his thighs forces him to buck and thrust, and the last semi-coherent thought in his head for a long time is that has never, ever felt this good in his entire life.


	7. Chapter 7

_Thank you so much for the reviews, everyone! :) I actually don't write PWPs very much at all, and this is the first Germany/Italy (or Italy/Germany) one I've done, so I'm very pleased with the responses. Having said that, writing porn is horribly embarrassing, so I will now go hide while you read this chapter... _

"Harder," says Feliciano, bossily. "Ve...hard– ah!"

Ludwig feels the shiver run all the way down his lover's spine; feels Feliciano's back judder beneath him, and, with very little rhythm or elegance, cants his hips, and thrusts with more ferocity into the smaller man.

His thoughts are blurred – pretty much non-existent by this point – and his legs are shaking so much it is a surprise to himself that he is able to move his hips at all. Yet he must be doing something right, because his lover is gasping, and making delighted "hmmm!" noises, and shuddering in that way Ludwig has learnt means Feliciano feels really, really good, every few seconds; and that makes him feel good too.

He is still unbearably aroused – every so often Feli's muscles will tighten around his painfully hard cock in such a way that every muscle in his body will stiffen, and he will actually physically feel himself wobbling on the brink of coming – but he bites his bottom lip, hard, repeatedly, until he tastes something like warm, liquid metal...admittedly, this does slow the rush towards completion, but on the downside he thinks he is quickly developing a kink for his own blood being drawn, which isn't good at all, given how his partner passes out when faced with mere paper-cuts.

"Ohh – Ludwig!" Feliciano tightens again, his spine arching, his soft, round backside pressing marvellously against Ludwig's groin.

Ludwig feels the pressure around his neck sharpen suddenly, and thrills at the feel of it. He is drawn down, down into Feliciano, until his chin nestles in the crook of the brunet's neck, and feverishly tries to match the intensity of his thrusts to those delivered from the previous angle.

"Ah!" Feliciano's voice rose and rose until it cracked. "Di...di più! Di più!"

Ludwig tightens his hold on the gag in his mouth, trying to grit his teeth around it in a desperate attempt to oblige his little lover. His throat tightens at the strange sensations, and he finds himself choking ever so slightly on it. He pushes harder and slower into Feliciano as he tries to shift his tongue and swallow.

He is breathing more heavily than ever before by this point, through his nose – and his chest, sticky and shiny with sweat is simply heaving. He feels even more distant by this point, and yet somehow he feels every tiny shock, every swirl of pleasure, every tremble of his toes as he teeters on that increasingly unsteady edge.

Pleasure is consuming, devouring his body, his self, and though he knows, somewhere very, very deep down he probably isn't getting enough oxygen in his lungs, and that, verdammt, he has that phone call sometime soon with – with Spain, isn't it? – he just cannot bring himself to care. These thoughts are almost entirely erased by now, blown away in the whirlwind of sensations assaulting every single part of him as he pushes himself past boundaries he hadn't known existed until now, forcing himself to pleasure his lover over and over and over again.

Feliciano's back trembles and dips, so that he is at a new, presumably more pleasurable angle. Ludwig feels it – every little twitch of the Italian's muscles, the way his shoulders point down on one side of his spine, and up on the other. He can feel him move his neck, turn his head...he feels hot, sweet breath against the side of his face...Feli's soft lips against his jaw...

"Ludi..." he whispers, and though Ludwig loves him, has always loved him, always will love him and love only him, he falls for the smaller man all over again in that single instant, hook, line and sinker. "Ludi...ve...would you – ah – like me to...ohhh...take off the...ah! Mouth thing?"

Ludwig doesn't think he can take much more of this; now, not only does he feel like he's about to come, probably very messily (the thought of which makes him groan for a couple of reasons), but he also doesn't think his heart can take much more of Feliciano being so damn lovely.

He nods rapidly, desperately, and does his best to hold still as Feli's gentle, slender fingers clumsily remove the gag for the second time that day. The second it is off, Feli grabs the back of his head, pulls him even closer, and they kiss as though they're sharing their last breath in this world.

Feliciano's tongue is a little bit pointed at the end, smaller than his own, and his lips are just slightly pouty, and upturned at the corners, and the cupid's bow is sharp, and together it is all perfect and wonderful, made just for Ludwig's own lips. He feels the smaller man breath his name into his mouth, and he whispers Feliciano's back, and his hips buck beyond his control. Feliciano presses back against that impossibly hard length inside him, pushing back onto it, and all Ludwig can do is shake and beg.

Feliciano is whispering something to him, something in Italian, breathy and almost imploring, something about loving Ludwig more than anyone in the world, no matter how many years go by, and something about it seems familiar, somehow...and though he cannot hold him with his wrists taped together, resting on the bed, he presses his chest against Feliciano's back – his side, really, given that the smaller man has squirmed around so that they can kiss whilst Ludiwg thrusts into him from behind, and he pushes his upper arms against Feli's shoulders, and kisses his lips, his cheeks, his hair...

"Ich liebe dich," he murmurs, and then, "ti amo."

Feliciano cries out, and pushes back even harder, demanding more yet again.

Ludwig moves harder, faster, deeper, but still it is not enough...he is used to the edge now, to teetering on the brink, and now he seems further back from it, without the gag...Feliciano kisses him again, biting down on his lower lip, and the pain sends him half-mad.

"F-Feli..." he whispers, and he wishes he knew how to say what he wants to ask in Italian...somehow, that would make it so much less embarrassing...

Still, his body calls out for more, and so he has no choice but to press his entire mouth against the tender shell of his lover's ear, and whisper, "Ple-please...wh-whip me." And he buries his scarlet face in the crook of Feliciano's neck.

Feliciano gasps, and arches once more. Ludwig doesn't move his head, but keeps his eyes shut tight behind the blindfold, his whole body quivering with shame. His hips continue to twitch, grinding almost automatically against the soft, perfect body beneath him, but his rush towards orgasm has slowed.

He feels fingers at his face once more – this time at his temples – and Feliciano stops moving back against him, and instead twists so he can just reach the knot sitting at the back of the other's head. Ludwig feels the black fabric loosen, then slide off altogether, and he blinks as the light crackles and snaps against his eyes. He closes them again, then opens them. His vision is somewhat fuzzy. The dim shape of Feliciano greets him, and gratefully, he sinks into him once again, breathing in the beaded sweat on the little Italian's neck. He sees a leash in Feliciano's hand, running back towards himself, and realises with a thrill what that pressure around his neck is.

"I...I hurt you..." Feliciano says, and he reaches back to trace the bright red marks on Ludwig's thighs left by the riding crop.

"No," says Ludwig, and in this state, still floaty, buried deep within his beloved Feliciano, the whip marks burning under the Italian's touch, he is in no way fit to construct a convincing argument. "No, no, no...please, please, Feli..." His eyes fall shut again, and he moans as Feliciano strokes his hand down those lines again. "Please..." He is burning up, from the inside out, and he begins to move his hips again as the fire spreading from the redness on his thighs to his loins burns hotter, wilder than ever before. He needs to move, he is close, so close...he can feel himself actually twitching deep inside his lover, and he is completely unable to stop himself drawing back, and thrusting in hard against Feliciano's prostate.

Feliciano gasps and whines.

"Please!" Ludwig insists. His thoughts are jumbled, incoherent, but from somewhere in the messy recesses of his mind he remembers – "We can...we can say stop if one of us says...ahhh...says..."

"Pasta?" Feliciano suggests, and Ludwig knows he has won. Feliciano's hand moves across the wrinkled bedsheets towards the abandoned riding crop.

"Ja."

"No," says Feliciano, apparently growing a little braver, and that teasing, wicked smile he flashes up at Ludwig is like nothing else. "Si, Ludiwg, si! Did you forget?"

"S-si," Ludwig whispers, and the first strike of the crop against his right thigh is just out of this world.

He moans, and Feliciano makes a pleased noise, and pushes back against him, wriggling his hips, reminding him to move. With that pain, the burn, the delicious heat coursing wild paths throughout his body, Ludwig complies, thrusting his hips forwards again.

"Ah, si, si Ludwig!" Feliciano hisses, and presses his forehead to the mattress. "Si!"

The next strike against his thigh feels even better, sharper and harder, and so does the one after that, and the one after that...

He breaths heavily, harshly, and Gott, he is close, he is so close, and he doesn't want to come, he doesn't want this to ever end...

Feliciano's dress is moulded to the shape of his upper body, saturated with sweat and cum, and he pulls back as far as he can so he can see the whole thing...the way Feliciano writhes and moans, shuddering in anticipation, tangled up in a too-short dress and stockings which are beginning to slip down his gorgeous legs...then the way his eyes close, and the corners of his mouth turn upwards in delight when Ludwig thrusts inside, hitting his sweet spot...then the way, just before Ludwig pulls out again, Feliciano's arm moves back, and he raises the crop...Ludwig closes his own eyes for this part...and then his is on fire once more, and Feliciano tugs on his leash, pulling him in for a kiss, deceptively innocent with no tongue, but Heilige Scheiße...

Then Feliciano's back stiffens, and the next strike against his sore, crimson thigh is harder than usual, and his head drops down between his arms, and his moans grow louder, and Ludwig knows Feliciano is close. He hears him ask – demand more, his throat so tight his words are almost lost in the rush of blood to Ludwig's head, and he tightens impossibly around his lover's cock, and then he cries out Ludwig's name, and Ludwig stays still inside him until Feliciano stops shaking.

He is still hard – painfully so – but that isn't important now, and anyhow, it feels incredible, being on the brink for so long, without coming, and his thighs still burn, and his heart is pounding, and so he simply presses a kiss to Feliciano's neck, and, as gently as he can, pulls out.

Feliciano turns over, so his is facing his taller lover, and flops back against the bed, smiling sleepily. He drops the riding crop, and looks down at his dress. "Um," he says, and his voice is a little slurred and cracked with exhaustion, "Ve, Ludi, do you think we can wash this out?"

Ludwig laughs, still high and hard and buzzing from the rush resulting from the combination of not coming yet, being whipped, and blindfolded and bound and gagged, at long last, and at his lover's sheer cuteness...though perhaps sexiness isn't a bad word to use either...he looks absolutely delectable sprawled out there, after all, his stomach and stocking spotted with come. It all just serves to make Ludwig even hornier, really.

He moves awkwardly, down on his hands and knees, until he reaches Feliciano. The smaller man catches his chin between shaking hands, and they kiss...then Ludwig sinks down, still fuzzy, still happy, and rests his head against Feli's stomach, and once again begins to methodically remove all traces of thick, white liquid from the smaller man's body.

Feliciano hums happily, and rests one hand lightly on Ludwig's head, stroking his hair with infinite gentleness, and places the other at the top of his bruised and beaten thighs, and moves it up and down, every so often slipping between his legs to cradle and squeeze the harness there, keeping him at that plateau...at the very edge...

He grows tired very suddenly, and he feels his body beginning to sink. He is so tired...

With difficultly, he moves his hands down to hip-level, knowing he should, at last, relieve himself of this distracting and slightly uncomfortable burden...he may not want to end this game now, but if he wakes up horny, he will, yet again, be prevented from carrying out the boring but essential tasks that really do need doing before the day is out...however the very tips of his fingers are only just brushing against the base of his arousal when Feliciano's hands curl around his own, pulling them away.

A thrill coils deep within Ludwig's body; threatens to spill out, thick and pale onto the carpets.

"No. Sleep, Ludi," Feliciano whispers, and so Ludwig does not touch himself, but closes his eyes, and drifts off without a single word of protest, half-curled up in Feliciano's lap.


	8. Chapter 8

_Well, here's the last chapter. Thank you everyone for your lovely comments/favourites, etc! I'm so happy so many people like this thing =) Anyway, here you go...enjoy!_

Ludwig does not dream, but he could still be asleep; that's what it feels like. He lies still, almost unable to move, his eyes closed as he breathes in, and out, and in, and out, and in...

He is warm, and tired, though he has slept – is sleeping – what is he doing? It is difficult to tell – and his muscles ache and his skin prickles and burns.

Slender fingers are combing slowly, so slowly, through his hair, and a gentle palm is resting on the crown of his head...then the whole hand moves, sweeping slowly; oh so slowly backwards from his hairline, downwards along the top of his head and back, back, back, down to the nape of his neck. He can feel sweat drying there, and on his shoulders, and along the length of his spine, and he shivers. He is growing cold.

The next thing Ludwig becomes aware of is his still-painful erection. He can feel it pressing against a warm, slender leg, trapped there by his own thigh. It is throbbing terribly, and when he moves a little to relieve some of the sensation, he slips a bit; and now it is pressed against the thick, slightly scratchy carpet. He hears a moan, thin and needy, and it takes a moment for him to realise that it comes from himself.

"Ludi..." says a voice, and there is another hand on his body, now; this time on his right hip, sliding downwards, inwards...he feels it against the inside of his thigh...fingernails...and the scratches are gentle now, more like slow tickling than passion-induced, claws-out fervour.

Feliciano's head drops to meet his own, and a tender kiss is placed on the tip of his ear.

"My Ludi," he murmurs, and Ludwig clenches his fists, and presses his face into the smaller man's lap as Feliciano's hand moves further, faster...the soft ends of those fingers reach his balls, rub slowly, lingering a moment; then move onwards and upwards, touching the base of his arousal, slowly, almost tentatively at first, then squeezing and teasing...they move up, then back down, and up again...down...and he clings to the other, wordlessly begging, writhing minutely, absolutely exhausted in his lover's lap.

His whole body hurts, and it is wonderful.

Feliciano's dress is wet with their fluids, and his stockings are bunched a little around his knees, gathering in fuzzy dark lines. Thin nylon threads criss-cross each other over tanned skin, leaving tiny diamond-shaped gaps between the strands. The colour of the threads doesn't quite match up to the colour of Feliciano's skin; they are a little too pale; and too shiny...perhaps it is just the light in the bedroom, but they seem to glitter and gleam slightly when they catch on a fleck of sunshine. Ludwig sees all these details; they are becoming more and more real to him as Feli's hand moves with increasing speed along his length. Before, he saw these things through a haze but felt them like a knife-edge, and now they are becoming real again, and he is moving away from the dream, the fog, and back into reality, and it is all too fast, too fast...

His breath catches in his throat, and through the rushing of blood between his ears, he vaguely hears himself letting out desperate, gasping cries which fall apart, stumble over one another, and are sliced apart as they reach his throat.

He does not come until Feliciano swaps hands, and moves his now wet right one to the backs of Ludwig's thighs, stroking, tracing the shape of new, purpling bruises there...and it aches, it aches so beautifully that he arches his hips backwards – oh, that hurts, oh Gott – and words, making not an ounce of sense spill from his lips in a jumbled, desperate plea.

"Please, please...ah, per favore, please let me – Feli, bitte, bitte!"

He doesn't think he'll be able to stop himself even if Feliciano says no – but then lips drag across his shoulder, and he is kissed, and Feliciano moves his hand faster, and whispers, "Si," and, at long last, he comes with a rough sob, and Feli's hand doesn't stop moving until Ludwig's hips no longer buck, and his thighs stop clenching against the floor.

The air becomes colder still, freezing the sweat on his back and his neck, and his head is spinning, and he almost feels ill.

"Mmm," says Feliciano, and the words are like distant echoes, still lost in that haze, in that mist. The green maid's dress shifts beneath Ludwig's face and torso, as though the smaller man is fiddling with it; pulling it. "I need to take this off, Ludi, it's icky. Can you move?"

He curls even further in on himself, drawing his legs up towards his stomach and shakes, clutching desperately at Feliciano's legs. He is falling, he knows, he is falling...

"Ludi!" Feliciano wriggles away, kneeling up so he can wrest his legs from his lover's grasp. "C'mon, you have to sit up!"

He can't; he can't!

His mouth is too dry...

"Ludi?"

His cheeks are wet, and, oh, he is cold, so cold...

"Ludwig?" Feliciano's voice trembles, and for a moment, all is still – then a pair of warm arms are flung around his waist and shoulders, and he is tugged upwards until he is resting against the side of the bed. Feliciano wriggles between his legs, pulls their chests together, peppers his face with kisses – his cheeks, his chin, his jaw, his temples, his sweaty forehead, his eyebrows...

"Oh, Ludi, don't cry!" he is saying, half-sobbing in terror himself, and Ludwig feebly tries to hug him back. "Please, Ludwig...did – did I h-hurt you? Oh, please...hug...hug me...Ludwig..."

He is warmer now, and his arms and legs and hands suddenly feel capable of movement. He tries to embrace Feliciano, but –

"M-my hands," he murmurs, and Feliciano pulls back, his eyes wide and watery. "My hands...they're tied...still tied up." His voice is raspy, and he still trembles somewhat, but this...this is better...he can smile now, and he does so, clumsily kissing his lover's tears away.

"Ludwig..." Feliciano kisses him in return, over the bridge of his nose, and fumbles around for the scissors. They are lying a short distance behind the pair, next to Ludwig's ruined shirt. Feliciano seizes them; and, after some initial difficulty, cuts the blond man free. "I thought...I thought..."

"'M okay," Ludwig says, though he presses closer. He craves Feliciano's body heat, his hugs, his kisses like a drug now; but the shaking is ending, and though he can still feel dampness on his cheeks, he is alright...he is. "I'm fine."

He wraps Feliciano up in his arms, and Feliciano holds him closer, and they sit there for a while, buried in one another.

Ludwig's head is buzzing, and he is still tired, and sore, and horribly sticky, but he has Feliciano, who seems to have calmed down now. He feels totally sated; though slightly empty (he attributes this to endorphins and sheer exhaustion, however, his mind rattling through the pages of manuals and encyclopaedias he has committed to memory, albeit at a rather slower pace than usual), and he is far too relaxed to even think about moving from their position on the floor to the bed, no matter how impractical a place to sit the former may be.

"Thought you hated me," Feliciano mumbles, and Ludwig feels it rather than hears it, just like when the smaller man was licking over his skin earlier, nibbling and biting, breathing words into the core of his very being...

"I'd...never hate you," Ludwig says softly, and lazily, he kisses his hair. "Just...tired."

Feliciano nods, bumping Ludwig's nose, though he doesn't mind, not really, before saying, "Did I...did I make you feel good, Ludi?"

"Mmmm," Ludwig says, and his cheeks turn slightly pink. "Very good."

"Good," says Feliciano, and then adds: "I – think I'd like to try it again. Ve, if you want." He looks slightly embarrassed, but also rather hopeful.

"I do." He says this at once, and flushes an even deeper shade of scarlet.

Feliciano giggles, for whatever reason, and strokes down Ludwig's arm. "You're shaking again," he notes, and there is a hint of worry in his sweet voice.

"'S alright," Ludwig says, though his heart pounds, and he wraps his arms more tightly around Feliciano when the Italian tries to move away. "Wait –"

"Bed," Feliciano explains, and, with some difficulty, pulls the other man to his feet.

It is lucky after all they were sat where they were, Ludwig thinks, through the thick cloud of sleepiness forming about his head – because the instant he stands up, he wobbles, and falls down onto the mattress, unable to reach out an arm to steady himself.

He turns over, holding out a hand, hungrily, anxiously seeking out the smaller man – and his heart stops racing quite so wildly when slim, pointed fingers entwine with his own. Feliciano crawls inelegantly over him rather than let go of his lover's hand and simply walk around the bed to his side – and flops down, as close to Ludwig as is physically possible.

"Love you," he says, in that soft sing-song trill which only he can make endearing. "Love you, Ludi."

Ludwig makes a quiet, discomfited "Mph," sound, and mumbles that he loves Feliciano too into the smaller man's hair.

Feliciano chuckles, and shuffles even closer.

They lie still together, silent and unthinking; just existing, listening to and feeling the rhythmic flow of oxygen between two bodies bound together across time. Feliciano's eyes are closed, and his head is pressed into the space between Ludwig's neck and his left shoulder, and every time he lets out a long, slow, cool breath, his dark eyelashes flutter almost comfortingly against his lover's skin.

Ludwig lets his eyelids fall closed too – slowly, almost reluctantly – and turns his head so the end of his nose is pressed into Feliciano's hair. It is ridiculous, Ludwig thinks; all the comparisons made between one's lover and roses, or spices, or sunlight; because that is not what Feliciano smells of at all. He smells of sweat, and cum, and somewhere there is cologne – an odd concoction of both his own and his lover's, rubbed together by hot, hot skin – and then there is the faintest scent of leather from the riding crop, now abandoned somewhere below them, and that odd, plastic-like, unpleasant smell that tape has, and of course pasta, because he cooks more and more of the damn stuff every day; more than the two of them can possibly eat.

But all of these scents swirl together, and, somehow, inexplicably, smell perfectly charming, and just right – that's the only word that works; just right – for Feliciano. They comfort him, slow his heartbeat from its previous out-of-control thunderclap, rise up to rest atop his eyes, which grow heavier and heavier, despite the fact that they are already shut.

He sighs, breathing in those lovely smells again, and sinks further back into the mattress.

The fierce red marks from the crop which now adorn his upper thighs sting quite badly, as do the purple bruises across his neck and shoulders where Feliciano's affectionate nibbles became a little more fervent than usual – and the places on his arms and legs and wrists and ankles where lengths of rope and bondage tape have burnt his skin like cold fire tingle as though a thousand sharp needles are pressing into him – but they are like kisses at the end of a love letter, like the last words the little Italian says to him before the pair of them go to sleep at night, and so he simply shifts his body until the pain fades away somewhat, and concentrates on the feeling of the sheets licking over those small messages of love.

The light has faded. He doesn't look at the alarm clock, ticking away by his bedside, but he guesses that the time rests somewhere in that warm pink hue between late afternoon and evening. He has the feeling that he is forgetting to do something; that he should not be laying half-asleep, covered in sweat and other...substances...in bed with his lover; that there is something work-related he needs to do, but he cannot for the life of him think what it is. It probably doesn't really matter, anyhow, he thinks, and raises his arms as Feliciano wriggles closer into him, and lays them around his shoulders and waist. Their legs wrap around each other like the ivy that clings to his old castles, and he smiles as his lover flexes his toes, brushing them gently over the tops of his feet.

Feliciano yawns. "Ve...I didn't...I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asks, after a while.

"That was sort of the point."

"Yeah, but..." He struggles. "Ve, you know what I mean."

Ludwig smiles. "I told you, I'm fine."

Feliciano lies still at his side, eyes closed. He remains motionless for a very long time, and Ludwig thinks that he should probably go to sleep too; and is just sliding away into darkness when the little Italian mumbles, "You seem happier now, anyway. I'll tell Hungary."

"You don't need to tell Hungary anything," Ludwig replies, managing to stifle a yawn. "Really."

"She said she wanted to know."

"Well...don't. Please."

Feliciano smiles – and though Ludwig's eyes are closed, he knows this; he can feel it in the way his body presses even closer (if that's actually possible), and hear it in the way his breath comes out in an amused, almost unintelligible "Hm!" He tightens his grip on his lover, just a little bit.

They lie in silence, bodies wound up like ropes for a little while longer, then Feliciano says, softly, "Alright."

Ludwig sighs with relief, and moves his hand up and down Feli's arm, just once.

A pause, and then, even more quietly, Feliciano adds: "I'd do anything for you, Ludi."

His cheeks are pink – crimson – he knows, but he forces himself to open his eyes, and meet the amber gaze of his lover. "I know," he says, and he kisses him. "Will you be the one who tidies up, then?" he asks, but Feliciano's eyes close at once, and he presses his face into Ludwig's shoulder, and pretends to sleep.

Ludwig watches him – it is something he's always loved doing, watching Feliciano, for her really is the most intriguing, curious creature – and when he feels his own eyes begin to fall shut for the very last time that day, he presses his lips to the smaller man's ear, and, eternally awkward, mutters, "Gute Nacht, Engel."


End file.
